


apparition licence

by cloverblooms



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Death, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Mutual Pining, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 04:28:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29483700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloverblooms/pseuds/cloverblooms
Summary: “You know, he’d be right pissed,” George said leaning over the counter, a semblance of his old self taking hold of him, as if his twin were there alongside him to agree, “if you’d finally gotten your bloody licence and never apparated again.”In which Fred Weasley’s promises to you are cut short.
Relationships: Fred Weasley/Reader, Fred Weasley/You
Kudos: 12





	apparition licence

For the longest time, you knew you loved Fred Gideon Weasley. Loved him in his youth, white Christmases when freshly-sewn oversized jumpers swallowed his awkward and lanky frame. Loved him through the phases of his rebelliously long hair, silently cheering for him on the sidelines as he attempted to swindle the Goblet with George. Loved and _laughed_ at him as he turned snot green from a miscalculation on a product he tested on himself. Loved him entire summers as the freckles on his skin darkened and his fiery hair was seemingly set ablaze by the beating hot sun. Loved him as he streaked through wreckage and rainbow fireworks in your fifth year, leaving the formality of education behind in his own way. And loved him so when he promised to do the same for you when you graduated.

Through the insanity of their pranks and your willingness to volunteer as their reliable product tester, Fred always handled you like delicate flower. His love, unbeknownst to you, was especially prominent when you begged him to teach you how to apparate before you were legally allowed to. The sweltering August you spent cooped up at 12 Grimmauld Place, you’d become particularly persistent. That summer was when the twins had just gotten licensed in apparition, abusing the privilege much to their mother’s chagrin. You couldn’t get anywhere in the house without hearing the familiar _crack_ , and Fred’s warm body suddenly flush against yours. He’d laugh when you jump back in surprise but not before pulling you towards him in an embrace. How you loved feeling his warm flesh on yours, fingers intertwined in his when you fell back on the sofa.

“Why not now?” You pleaded, face close to his, much closer than friends should be. The question of your relationship was something you vowed to resolve after the impending war.

“Nope,” he spoke firmly, drawing circles with his calloused thumb on your hand. “Next year, you’ll learn it properly.”

“But I can’t take the test until the year after.”

“Summer birthdays are just _awful_ things, aren’t they?” He teased, a form of payback from all his spring birthdays spent in the rain.

“Fred,” you huffed. “You and George break so many rules anyway, what’s different about this one?”

He racked his head for an excuse.

“Nothing,” he stated with a wink. “Just that you’d look bloody gross if you were splinched.”

You made a face. Fred looked at you with an uncharacteristic tenderness. It wasn’t as if he didn’t want to teach you at all; it was the thought of his teachings _failing_ that terrified him. If Ron splinched, he would’ve sat there laughing with George before his twin would realize the severity of the situation and call for help. If it was Ron that was reprimanded by the Ministry for underage apparition, he’d tease him endlessly, knowing his father would step in for that little git. But not you. You just sat there pleading with perfectly pouted lips, and the temptation to just kiss you right there was quickly taking precedence in his heart. But no, not now. No, for you, everything had to be right and proper.

“Now, if you stop asking, I may take you for a side-along stroll through this place,” he offered instead.

You looked back to the kitchen where Molly was preparing tonight’s dinner, humming as she chopped carrots and onions and stirred the stew, blissfully unaware of her son’s proposition.

“You’d really?”

He held out his arm.

“Really.”

With a _crackle_ , you were both gone, the last thing you heard being Molly’s voice scolding Fred for excessive apparition. You appeared in a spare room where Ron was rehearsing something akin to flirting in front of the closet mirror. Before he could react – _crackle_ – you appeared in an unused bedroom where Kreacher was quietly pilfering old possessions. The old house elf turned around a second too late, because you were now in the twins’ room, where George was laying on his back, twinkling a prototype of some sort between two fingers. He looked up, noticing your arm still linked in Fred’s, and smiled.

The rest of the day was well-spent using Extendable Ears to listen in on Ron’s feeble attempts at chatting up women.

* * *

The disappearances of Fred and George in your last year left a gaping hole in your heart. Harry, Ron, and Hermione’s absence did nothing to soothe that pain. Where Headmaster Dumbledore used to sit, it was Headmaster Snape. Where Filch used to censure, there were the Carrows. Where grumbles came from being forced to write lines or polish trophies, instead echoed screams of pain from deep down the dark hallways. You remained quiet, bit your tongue and obeyed the rules to just get through it all. You prayed every day for your friends’ safety. And if there was anything to get you through this horrible year, it was the prospect of passing your apparition test in April. And Neville, who turned out to be surprisingly good at emphasizing with your worries and your sudden confiding in him of your long-time infatuation with Fred Weasley. Being the kind boy he always was, he assured you you’d see him again, that he’d feel the same way about you. You felt relief wash over you at his words. 

When this was over, no matter how bloodied and bruised any of you were, you’d leap into Fred’s arms, relishing in the feeling of him spinning you around in victory. His girl _,_ he’d proclaim. Then in his melodic laughter, you’d kiss him for the first time. And the rest of the story would write itself.

But as comforting as his words were, they were heinously wrong. That ill-fated night came beating down like a sledgehammer to a mirror, shattering your hopes and dreams. You’d gotten just a quick glance at Fred alongside his brother Percy before the walls caved in, taking him and twenty years of joy and jubilant laughter in the aftermath. All you got to see after braving the worst year of your life was his lifeless stare as he was laid in the makeshift infirmary. His hand didn’t offer the same warmth and protection as they always did, instead, they were bitterly cold in yours. Through tears, you whispered about all the things you planned to do after you’d gotten your apparition licence, fully knowing he couldn’t hear a damn thing. He was gone. You cried and cried into his chest, stopping only when Molly pulled you up and embraced you, shedding her own tears with you. A mother’s intuition always knew, but this was a love that would never be.

Months after, you still couldn’t bring yourself to do it. Apparate. A skill you yearned so strongly to do, waited for that April day so patiently for. And no, not for just yourself. No, the sensation of it and any talks of it was always reminiscent of Fred Weasley. The feeling of taking his strong arm, the smell of his well-worn flannel – of bonfires and the warmth of a loving home – and the sound of his strong heartbeat as you lay against his chest. He lavished you with grand dreams of how you were going to apparate around the country _à la Weasley_ after this was over, to the salty seaside of the beach, paying a quick visit to Bill and Fleur at the Shell Cottage, then through the earthy forest where you could spend the day with just nature, then through modern London for a quick show, then re-appear in the Burrow without barely a sound, but always just in time for dinner.

Now, all the wonderful memories sunk to the bottom of the ocean, never to be found again.

* * *

The next couple of months, you’d taken to chimneys and flying for your travels. It was slower but at least it didn’t _hurt_. At the very least, a walk to the lovely shopping streets signified that things were back to normal. As normal as they’d ever be after the brutality of war. Boarded shops slowly opened their doors again, painting some much needed colour after a grey drought. You’d taken to buying small quantities of floo powder, sparsely replenishing your little flowerpot on the fireplace mantle every Monday. Weekly trips became routine and whether it was healthy or not, you didn’t care.

One early morning with nothing in particular to do, you found yourself on a walk to Diagon Alley. The skies were amber and the sun was shyly tucked under the horizon. You were probably Floo-Pow’s first client of the day, and you wondered if anyone thought oddly of you for making so many stops here. But what would they know? This was your way of coping, and no matter how ridiculous it was, it helped you.

You paid your sickles and received your purchase in a bag through a small wooden hole. You then stopped at a bakery. With it being so early in the day, the only patrons were other storeowners who sought peace before opening their doors. They sat nursing their coffees and languidly flipping through The Daily Prophet. You didn’t even have to ask the employee at the counter who'd memorized your order: two coffees, a few pastries, and a copy of today’s news. With your purchases in stow, you slowly walked to your last destination.

93 Diagon Alley. The brightest store of the lot of them here was Weasley Wizard Wheezes.

George let you in immediately when he saw you waiting at the window. There was barely a quiet moment in this shop, so early mornings alone were quite welcome.

“Morning, Georgie,” you greeted as the doors opened themselves for you, watching the younger twin stock his store. You held up the coffee and a bag of pastries. “Breakfast?”

“You didn’t have to,” he murmured, descending his ladder and cleaning his hands with a towel before making his way to the door. He always thought it should be him treating you with all the earnings of his business. Nonetheless, he accepted your weekly offering of breakfast as usual, a sentimental token of your thoughts. “Thanks.”

You did your best not to wallow in sadness in George’s presence; it made you feel selfish. George had lost his twin brother, his loyal partner in all his marvellous mischief, and most importantly, a part of himself. You had just lost a friend. You were not Fred’s family, you had not grown up together, had not taken your first steps or said your first words together. You had no right to complain or to pity yourself at the future you lost when George got up every day and continued his brother’s legacy the best he could.

As he bit into his pastry, he eyed the little sack you kept at your side.

“Again?” He raised an eyebrow.

You flushed.

“I know, it’s such a stupid thing to get hung up on,” you admitted, remembering how he said the same thing last week. “But I just can’t do it, Georgie. It still hurts.”

George sighed.

“You know, he spent that entire week asking if you’d gotten your licence,” he recalled, in reference to the week that elapsed between your examination and the final battle, the day of Fred’s death. “And of all the crazy things you were going to do. I was sure he’d forgotten I even existed.”

You chuckled before the first tear rolled down your cheek, memories of things that would never be consuming your mind.

“With distinction, like you,” you said, voice wavering. You were at least glad that you remained in Fred’s last thoughts. “I was so excited to tell him.”

The younger Weasley twin handed you a handkerchief from his jacket which you happily accepted.

“I reckon he knew,” he said through a sip of coffee, “Longbottom might’ve said something to him.”

You dabbed your tears, a smile lighting your face. So, he knew. He must’ve known before he passed. 

“You know, he’d be right pissed,” George said leaning over the counter, a semblance of his old self taking hold of him, as if his twin were there alongside him to agree, “if you’d finally gotten your _bloody_ licence and never apparated again.”

The image of Fred jokingly chiding you for your wasted efforts in your head caused you to laugh. Genuine bouts of laughter. How could you have never realized? He would’ve revelled in your ability to apparate so flawlessly like _him_ , and what a shame it’d be if you never did it again because of _him_.

“I suppose you’re right,” you admitted. “He’d be so upset with me.”

“Mum's making a big breakfast today,” George stated, taking a quick glance at the clock to his left, its centre adorned with a puppet Weasley caricature. Its abnormally small finger on its left hand long past seven and its large finger on the other was pointing precariously close to the twelve. “If you can make it by eight, she’d love to have you.”

“I’ve always loved your mom,” you complimented, thinking of how loving Molly was, and how at certain points in your life, she considered you her own daughter and her, your own mother.

You spent your last moments of sunrise embracing George, feeling the pain of losing Fred slowly dissipate. One day it would disappear completely, but to start that process, you had to start taking the first steps. To not fear what Fred loved to do. What he would’ve loved you to do in his absence. 

“Careful now,” George warned, chin rested on your head as he stroked your hair. “Don’t splinch yourself.”

“With distinction, George Fabian Weasley,” you corrected, “I passed with _distinction_.”

And so you left George’s presence, disappearing from the shop with barely a sound as the stubby finger of the Weasley caricature jerked upwards to meet the eight. The familiar rush of apparating coursed through your body. Your friends often described it as though being unpleasantly squeezed, but for you, it was the nostalgic feeling of holding onto Fred Weasley’s arm as you apparated alongside him in Grimmauld Place. It was the blazing rush of his sun-kissed arms, strong around you, keeping you safe as if hurting you was the worst thing he could ever do. It was the excruciating bliss of his lips against your cheek, on your forehead, but never on your lips lest he mess it all up. It was every glorious sunrise you saw outside your windows, staying up far too late to fulfill orders with him and sleeping when his mother called for breakfast. It was the unbridled joy you felt, heart tingling listening the wild promises of what was to come. It was the longing anticipation of him telling you how proud of he was of you in front of all his friends and family, how he knew _his_ girl could do it.

But proud you would make him as you walked up the hill to the Burrow, feeling that in some ways, Fred would always be alongside you.


End file.
